Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Andrew Jackson Jihad Live!
"Brave is a noun"
Tower Bar, San Diego, CA, USA 8/5/2006

"If this is how you folks make art, it's fucking depressing!"

Andrew Jackson Jihad Live!
Tower Bar, San Diego, CA, USA 8/5/2006

"If I don't go to hell when I die, I might go to heaven!"

from The Eye at the End of your PUNK ASS:

-¿Is there anyone here who can ordain me?- Gregor asked.

-Yes.- Kelsey responded. -Gimme a hundred and three dollars.-

-¡Stupendous!- Gregor said. -¡Give the young lady a hundred and three dollars!-

The moon got larger. The cigarettes separated, and Kelsey and Drew were no longer surrounded by smoke.

But no a hundred and three dollars.

Gregor didn’t have two palms to rub together, and the cigarettes didn’t even have two bills to post bail.

Bail had already been set at 400 dollars, and the cigarettes, with their magic melodies and their curious idioms, couldn’t entertain Kelsey, or make bail.

Kelsey didn’t know that ten times twelve equaled a dollar two ninety eight. She didn’t know, she didn’t care, and so she sat, looking quiet. She looked like a cigarette that had been fed to vultures and then painted red like a door in the headlights.

Kelsey looked at Zandra. She was carrying a cigarette in a large, plucky, black vest. And, while the young cigarettes were dancing around like crazed demons, everyone else was trying to figure out just how serious this all was.

Gregor had just returned from the batting cages, where he had struck out 12 times and danced to a song about looking for love on all the wrong golf courses 13 times. The song was called “I’ll Tee It Up Tomorrow Because I Get Better Looking Balls Every Day”.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Caramelized Indigenous Aliens Club cover
(click for larger image - scroll down for story text)

Monday, August 07, 2006

Saturday Night, August 5, 2006
The Tower Bar, San Diego

Wendy and Michael having fun with Malakai
Saturday Night Aug. 5, 2006
Malakai, Andrew Jackson Jihad, & The Vision of a Dying World
at The Tower Bar, San Diego

Randy, John, Deacon and Ben, Malakai

Sean and Ben, Andrew Jackson Jihad

Jeremy, Jackson, Jona and Keith, The Vision of a Dying World

Sunday, August 06, 2006

for Sean and Ben

Walter collapsed. He was always collapsing. He gets nervous when he’s around dens of children he doesn’t know.

-I declare this session of The Caramelized Indigenous Aliens Club ¡OPEN! –He said, after righting himself. He hoisted the black and monstrous gavel and then slammed it down so hard that it shattered into steak and tiny John Leguizamos. And then he collapsed again, right into Greg’s lap.


It was a broad lap – large and stretchy. In fact, a cartel of pelicans had been painting a mural on it when Walter came crashing down. Walter had once again turned a silly meeting into sillier comedy, everyone licking their lips in anticipation of eating fallen prey, and then laughing maniacally instead. Walter then got tossed around from person to person until he wound up on the Givenchy and curiously red sofa.

This is a great place for caramelized indigenous aliens to congregate, Walter thought, before passing out again.

The boy Greg was sitting on the old sofa, Walter having been passed 360° around the room. Greg was serving his second 9-year-sentence as club pediatrician, specializing in examining Bonnie and Natasha – who had just walked into the room. In his succulent, rodent fingers, Greg held the Christ figure dressed as an android from the movie, “War Of The Galatassarays”, and he was making it move while mumbling to himself.

Evan, the boy-mayor of this burg, also had a Christ figure, but his was dressed like Uhuru from “Star Trek”, complete with sexy mini-skirt and anatomically correct go-go boots.

-¡Chivas! –Walter screamed as he tried to break into consciousness (Chivas is a great futbol team de Mexico. It is the only Mexican futbol club to have exclusively Mexican nationals on the roster.)-. ¿What time is it? ¿Where am I? It’s my first grunion run and I’m impatient to see dead fish rolling around on the sand.

Needless to say, no one paid any attention to him.

Bonnie herself was dressed as an alive monkey from the movie “The Gay Men’s Nude Retreat of Galatassaray”. Her friend, Natasha, was a girl so solemn that her family had constructed a force field around her that she was obliged to break out of if she wanted to eat, sleep, or defecate.

-¡Chivas! –Walter repeated (Chivas is a great futbol team de Mexico. It is the only Mexican futbol club to have exclusively Mexican nationals on the roster.).

Evan was now reading a book to the Christ-Uhuru. He had taken his digitalis that morning and he was on a crash-course set for horribly uncontrollable convulsions.

-Excuse me –Walter was finally coming to-. It is rude to read to Christ-Uhurus when I’m ¡trying to fucking conduct a meeting!

¿Which episode of “Star Trek” was the Christ-Uhuru in?, Walter axed himself.

Walter always erred on this side of asphyxiation with this club. You never knew what these boys would pull. Walter had been eating a pie once, when Bonnie sliced him open like a day-old piglet and then axed him if he still wanted to be the club’s fearless leader, and if he did, could she have five bucks until Tuesday.

¿Why is everyone always asinine? ¿Why do girls slice me up like they’re Hamas on sulfuric acid? There must be a reason for this crazy shit, Walter thought. And, for the third time, it came to him: the possibility that hanging out with other boys who were interested in “Star Trek” and in chicks might just infuriate chicks and William Shatner. And realign the planets.

¿Does the Christ-Uhuru really exist? The universe would be a better and sexier place if it did.

The light traveling through the window had traveled a bazillion miles to get there. ¿And now what? ¿Besides frying us alive like human cancer sticks?

Walter collapsed again, woke up, and screamed:

-¡Chivas! (Chivas is a great futbol team de Mexico. It is the only Mexican futbol club to have exclusively Mexican nationals on the roster.)

Righting himself once more, he asked:

-¿Are we grunion-hunting or not? I may be the new boss of this club, but I want you all to stop cutting me and cursing me and, also, I want you to officially name me your el Presidente. Then I will start doing a good job.

Greg – who you’ll remember was on the couch – was now all over Bonnie like Marcello Mastroianni on rice. Evan snickered and looked up his Christ-Uhuru’s mini-skirt.

-Look, let’s start the bull crap –Natasha said, angry that these boys were getting excited by plasticine figures and Bonnie-. I’m horny… ¿Did I just say “horny”?

-No one’s listening to you –Bonnie said, pushing Greg’s hand between her legs-. First, we’re ignoring this Walter fuck, and then we’ll ignore you. Wait your turn.

-Fuck you –Natasha said, resignedly-. Get another social disease.

Walter looked over the faces of his minions.

These minions aren’t very enthusiastic –He said to his self-. ¿Are they real or have all of the major planets realigned?

-I’m going to read the minutes from our last fiasco –Bonnie announced to Walter. The girl then pulled out a submarine sandwich. She started eating and talking at the same time.

-During our last fiasco –She began- we talked about how fond we all were of watching things get blown up. And then we all went to the Extraterrestrial Museum of Greater Boston. And then, according to some notes that Greg jotted down, he was talking with a Mr. Hemming about the way the sun sets. Oh, and also the sun rises… uh, the way it rises. Greg’s handwriting is pretty fucked-up. And then some nonsense about whether extraterrestrials have carnivals, and if they do, ¿do they have carneys?

-Mr. Hemming was sick –Greg told her-. He couldn’t talk for two weeks after that. ¿Coincidence? I don’t think so.

Bonnie’s eyes went white. When her pupils popped back in, she continued reading the minutes.

-In our latest fiasco, Natasha proposed taping the editorial staff of the club bulletin together with radioactive duct tape. And we’re supposed to discuss that proposal today.

-I never said “duct” tape, it can be any radioactive tape –Natasha told Bonnie.

-Duct tape is bad news –Evan said, interrupting his reading to the Christ-Uhuru.

-Well, I think we’ve gotten the editorial staff’s attention –Walter said-. ¿Anyone else have any lame ideas?

-We all have lame ideas. For instance, we all believe that we are mutants from the Planet of Tiles –Evan contested-. If the editorial staff of the club bulletin would cooperate with us we wouldn’t have to tape them up with radioactive tape of any kind, or call them lame-ass aliens.

-Evan doesn’t get it –Greg said-. When he’s not calling attention to himself, he’s fishing in Cabo and taking all of the club’s secrets and monies with him.

Everyone stomped their feet and talked at the same time.

Walter lifted his hand to impose silence.

-¿What the fuck minutes are you reading, Bonnie? –He axed, trying not to have his tears of frustration seen above the din of the crowd.

-I’ve read this shit like a hundred times now –She answered-. I find a place in my heart, and all the bile and succubus sauce comes flying out.

-Your family’s flying out –Greg mumbled.

-¿Who said that last act of treachery? –Walter bumbled. He was confused. ¿Why was everyone jumping and shouting?

-Talk to the hand, kids –Walter implored-. I’m the new club president and I want you all working for me. ¿Where is the “me” in “team”?

No one responded. Evan was looking in the dictionary.

-It’s near the beginning, and at the end –Evan answered.

-Hey, call your segues –Greg said, lifting salt above the sofa and sprinkling it all over the place. This was the price he paid for having been couched on an escalator instead of a sofa.

All of the sudden, Greg started floating around the room, pouring salt on every one and every thing.

-¡Caramelized indigenous aliens! ¡FUCK all of you! –He exclaimed and then pulled his penis out of his pants, two by two.

-¿Cauterized aliens? –Walter axed-. ¡You stupid fuck! ¡No one here is cauterized!

Greg opened the salt shaker and pulled out caramelized Caucasians the color of Miss Vicky.

-¡I’m gonna cauterize YOU! –He screamed-. ¡I’m gonna cauterize you and then crap down your pie-hole!

-Um, ¿excuse me? I’m still reading the motherfucking minutes. And there is nothing in here about caramelizing or saltalizing anyone –Bonnie exclaimed and shot a snot rocket at Greg. She looked out at all of the caramelized bodies in the audience and started masturbating.

-I can do that with a penis –Walter said, extending his manhood outside his jeans-. ¡Check it out! –And when he came, he sprayed caramelized come all over the place. The sweet smell of caramelized come permeated the room like the smell of smoldering dumb-fuck in a downtown cafĂ©.

Natasha, with her habitually forlorn expression, looked like she could use a little caramelized come, and, on cue, she started rubbing it all over her teeth. Greg saw this as his cue to go out back and hit the bong with Evan, but first he waited until this sentence ended.

And it was then that he saw two caramelized indigenous alien club members entering without their masturbation cards.

-No masturbation cards, no enter –Greg told them-. And that’s too bad, ¡cause everyone’s beating off!

Immediately, Evan started orgasming, ejaculating a strange and grandiose fluid. He writhed around, squinting his eyes and moaning. His eyes and his back were both hunched over like a common world globe.

Evan had given into his underwear lust once again. He had once gotten the underwear lust in math class so bad that caramelized come was permanently attached to the classroom’s obtuse angle. It was so bad, his classmates voted him out of the class and then literally rode him out of class on a hi-fidelity stereo.

Walter screamed in terror just thinking of Evan hunched over the common globe like a dog in heat. He resented Evan’s underwear lust.

-¡Caramelized indigenous aliens! –Walter was gripping-. ¡Evan has converted to Pan-Alienism!

Bonnie emitted a prolonged and anguished chimichanga.


Bonnie’s roar continued Chimichanga’ing until a clam fell over everyone, and clams made the indigenous aliens calm. You’d a thought someone’d brought a keg of Xanax to the meeting, but it was just a clam, jarred loose from the rafters by Bonnie’s Chimichanga’ing. In addition to Chimichanga, Bonnie also spoke two blue languages: Red and Not So Red. She also spoke, but could not understand, Greasy Cola and Rosy Red, Cubed Peckerwood, and Gopher.

-¡Bonnie! ¡You’re converting me to Pan-Alienism! –Walter exclaimed-. The Caramelized…

Greg was converting also, except he was converting into a beast with four butts, three hearts, and balding, green hair.

Natasha’s head sprouted antennae, as her head itself turned white and gray.

You could see that the rigors of meeting week after week with all of these crawdaddy’s was taking its toll on everyone’s entropy.

-¡We’re converting into alien iguanas! –Walter outed, scratching his quickly-balding head with a pair of sofa-recliners-. All come the caramelized undignified, all-sucking… ¡Holy Jesus!

Walter was fucked. His beady eyes leered and his heart filled with latent violence.

Wait a minute –He said to his new rooster-slash-penis-. If you’re a rooster, ¿when did my penis secede from this union?

This is just fucking miserable. It can’t change into a rooster with arms. I had plans for it. And those plans did not involve roosters, though they did involve hands. ¿Why do I get transformed into a rooster-eunuch?

The others were running around like roosters with their three hands chopped off, babbling, lamenting their labia-amortizations, humping trashcans, and clicking their new, shiny mandibles.

-Umm, ¿boys and girls? –Walter babbled into the microphone-. I’m sorry about all of this. But at least it’s not Legionnaire’s Disease. Okay, I’m sorry again.

Walter was trying to calm everyone, but he didn’t speak Not So Red or Rosy Red, and he knew the crowd would soon turn on him.

-Please, we don’t want to set fire to our friends –He had gone beyond babble and into Babylonia-. And we really don’t want to set fire to our club president.

-¡We need a new president! –Bonnie said in Cubed Peckerwood, lamenting the loss of her labia in the blue language-. ¡This one’s got a rooster for a dick!

They devoured Walter in a matter of seconds. There was nothing left, except his head and a random tendon.

-This club meeting is concluded –Greg declared with a sonorous burp.

-Umm, ¡boys and girls, we can start any time now! –Jake took out his false teeth and put them in his pants pocket. He had bragged that his pants could hold anything, and the teeth and the snails crawling out of them proved it.

It had been messy, this Caramelized Indigenous Aliens Club meeting. It had been a reunion from hell for Greg. Evan had been pared like a crazy chicken, reading Time Marches On as his life’s blood marched out of him. Greg found out that Bonnie and Natasha were lovers, and he’d found their stash of saucy home movies.

-¡Let’s welcome our new president! –Bonnie exclaimed.

-¡Yessss! –Everyone yelled and applauded.

Jake bowed.

-Thank you –He said-. As your new president, I declare that I’m abdicating –Jake wasted no time in fucking with these indigenous alien’s collective caramelized minds. He reached into his pants, pulled out his false teeth, held them in his hand, and let them do the talking:

-But, before he abdicates –The teeth said-. I have one question: ¿Do y’all validate?